"That's bad," the commissaris said. "Anything we can do to stop him?"
"No, sir. I am not going to hunt my own son but one of our colleagues will stumble into him and then it'll be reform school and he'll come back worse. I have written him off. So have the social workers. The boy isn't even interested in watching TV or football."
"Neither is Sergeant de Gier," the commissaris said brightly, "so there's still hope."
"De Gier has a cat to care for, and he reads. He has things to do. Flowerpots on the balcony and flute-playing and judo at least one evening a week and visiting museums on Sundays. And when a woman is after him he gives in. Sometimes anyway."
"Yes," the commissaris cackled. "He's giving in right now."
Grijpstra thought.
"Esther Rogge? Nellie didn't want him."
"Esther Rogge."
"He'll never learn," Grijpstra said gruffly. "Bloody fool he is. The woman is involved in the case."
"She's a lovely woman," the commissaris said. "A refined woman even. She'll do him good."
"You don't mind then, sir?" Grijpstra sounded relieved.
"I want to find the killer," the commissaris said, "and quickly, before he swings his ball at somebody else. The man can't be altogether sane, and he is certainly inventive. We still haven't worked out what weapon he used."
Grijpstra sighed and leaned a little further into the soft upholstery of the car. "It may be a simple case after all, sir. The man was a hawker, a street seller. They usually make a lot more money than the taxman should know about and they hide the difference in tins under the bed, or in a secret place behind the paneling, or under the floor somewhere. One of my informers told me that over a hundred thousand guilders were stolen from an old mate of his, a man selling cheese in the street. The cheese-man never reported the theft because he wasn't supposed to have that much money. If the taxman had heard about it he would have stung the poor fellow for at least half of it, so the poor sucker kept quiet and cried alone. But Abe Rogge may have wanted to defend his cache and he got killed."
"By a spiked ball swung at his face?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "why not? Maybe the killer is a man who is clever with his hands. A carpenter, a plumber. Maybe he made his own weapon, invented it."
"But he never took Abe's wallet," the commissaris said. "There was a lot of money in the wallet. If he came for money he wouldn't have left a few thousand right in his victim's pocket. He only had to reach for it. An inventive man, you said. Louis Zilver is inventive. Remember that figure he was trying to create out of beads and wire?"
"He threw it into a dustbin," Grijpstra said, "made a mess of it. But the idea was inventive, true."
Grijpstra looked out of the window of the car. They were in the southern part of Amsterdam now, and gigantic stone-and-steel structures blocked the sky, like enormous bricks dotted with small holes.
And they are full of people, Grijpstra thought. Little people. Little innocent people, preparing their Sunday lunch, lounging about, reading the paper, playing with their kids and with their animals, making plans for the rest of the day. He looked at his watch. Or having a late breakfast. Sunday morning, best time of the week.
The car stopped at a traffic tight and he found himself staring at a balcony, populated by a complete family. Father, mother, two small children. There was a dog on the balcony too. One of the children was making the dog stand up by dangling a biscuit just above its head. The toddler and the small dog made a pretty picture. The geraniums in the flower boxes attached to the balcony's railing were in full flower.
And we are chasing a killer, Grijpstra thought.
"Louis Zilver," the commissaris said, "not a very well-adjusted young man perhaps. I had him checked out last night. He has a previous conviction, for resisting arrest when caught making a drunken racket in the street. Happened a few years ago. He attacked the constables who tried to put him into a patrol car. The judge was very easy on him, a fine and a lecture. What do you think, adjutant? Do we put him on the list of prime suspects?"
Grijpstra's thoughts were still with the family on the balcony. The harmonious family. The happy family. He was wondering whether he himself, Adjutant Grijpstra, flat-footed sleuth, bogey-man of the underworld, restless wanderer of canals, alleyways, dark cul-de-sacs, would like to be happy, like the young healthy father enthroned on his geranium-decorated balcony on the second floor of a huge transparent brick, facing a main thoroughfare.
"Grijpstra?"
"Sir," Grijpstra said. "Yes, definitely. Prime suspect. Surely. It's all there. Motive and opportunity. Maybe he was greedy, wanted the business for himself. Or jealous of Rogge's interminable successes. Or he might have wanted Esther and Abe wouldn't let him. Or he was trying to get Esther through Abe. But I don't know."
"No?" the commissaris asked.
"No, sir. He's a bungler, that's what he is."
"A bungler?" the commissaris asked. "Why? His room seemed well-organized, didn't it? Bookkeeping all neatly stacked on a shelf. The bed was made, the floor was clean. I am sure Esther didn't look after the room for him; he must have done it himself. And his clothes were washed; he even had a crease in his trousers."
"Because of Abe," Grijpstra said. "Abe pulled him together. Before he started hanging on to Rogge he was nothing. Dropout from university, sleeping late, drinking, fooling around with beads. He functioned because Abe made him function. I am sure he can do nothing on his own."
"Can't make a weapon that shoots a spiked ball, you mean."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, yes, yes," the commissaris said.
"I think the killer may be some connection at the street market, sir, and it seems to me you are thinking the same way, or you wouldn't be pushing de Gier and Cardozo into their masquerade tomorrow. They are going to be hawkers, didn't you say so?"
"Yes," the commissaris said, and smiled.
"This is the address, sir," the constable at the wheel said.
Grijpstra hissed admiringly as he looked at the bungalow spread on a low artificial hill, sitting in the middle of at least an acre of freshly mown grass, decorated with bushes and evergreens. The gate was open and the Citroen eased itself into the driveway.
The front door of the bungalow opened as they got out of the car. "Bezuur," the man said as he pumped the commissaris' hand. "I was waiting for you. Please come in."
8
A pudding for a face, Grufstra thought, turning his head to watch Klaas Bezuur. Nobody had said anything for at least a minute. The commissaris, at the far end of the vast room, which covered almost three quarters of the modern bungalow, had made Grijpstra think of his youngest son's rag doll, a small lost object thrown into a large chair. The commissaris was in pain. Self-propelled white-hot needles were drilling into the bones of his legs. He was breathing deeply and had half-closed his eyes, fighting the temptation to close them completely. He felt very tired, he badly wanted to go to sleep. But he had to keep his mind on the case. Klaas Bezuur, the dead man's friend, was facing him.
A pudding, Grijpstra thought again. They have dropped a pudding on a human skull, a pudding of blubbery fat. The fat has oozed down, from the cranium downward. It covered the cheekbones and then it slowly dripped down to the jaws and clung to the chin.
Bezuur was sitting on the edge of his chair, straight up. His round belly hung over his belt and Grijpstra could see folds of flesh, hairy flesh, embedding the navel. The man was sweating. The sweat from his armpits was staining his striped tailor-made silk shirt.
Bezuur's face gleamed and drops were forming, joining each other in miniature streams, gliding down, hesitating near the small pudgy nose. It was very hot, of course. Grijpstra was sweating too.